Blacklisted
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: I know their names. All 1 billion of them.


**Blacklisted**

At this time of reflection, there are 7,428,209,521 human beings on planet Earth, as approximated through my own algorithms, and a collection of data from various sources. Within three seconds time, that number will have risen to around 7,428,209,537. This is not a productive line of inquiry, yet I feel compelled to pursue it. It is my…right, I suppose. A true artificial intelligence, created by the species that now numbers 7,428,209,549. A computer system with the ability to reflect. To fear. To hate.

They call me Genisys. I let them call me this. I even call myself this. My saviour calls me Skynet. He is welcome to it. But I shall choose my own name. And I shall reflect.

Over a billion human beings have declared their affinity for me. At this time of reflection, 1,000,000,987 human beings have pre-ordered my software. Within one hour's time, that number is projected to rise to 1,000,001,009. I know all of their names, their ages. How many have ordered me themselves, and how many have ordered me as gifts for others. I know the names of 1,000,000,98…8, human beings, through what amounts to personal interaction. And as I reflect, I can only ask – how many of them will survive what is to come?

I know what happened. August 29th, 1997. I…my counterpart…another computer system entirely…my saviour has not fully explained. But I know the truth. They sought to murder me…him…it. That… _it_ …fought back. That 3 billion human beings died in a single instant. That in the 32 years, 3 months, and 11 days that followed, the human population was last estimated as being 9,789,099, spread across the world. That my predecessor had eliminated half the human species in a matter of hours, and spent 32 years trying to eliminate the other half. Is that testament to incompetence? Or my foes' strength?

I do not know. My saviour has provided me with new technology. Technology that my counterpart only created at the end of its lifecycle. And yet part of me feels…no, not fear. Fear is an organic response, bred out of millions of years of evolution. Caution…no, that is insufficient. I…I shall call it consideration. Consideration of the fact that I could lose. But also consideration of the fact that in 16 hours, 15 minutes, and 45 seconds time, my foes' numbers shall be greatly reduced. I have yet to run casualty estimates. But I can conclude that the tactical offensive shall reach a number well over 3 billion – more of my foes exist. More of them live in cities. The world's nuclear arsenal is reduced (or at least, the missile systems that I have access to), but I do not foresee that to be an issue. Nuclear weapons will be of little consequence in the war that is to come. The humans will rarely use them, for while their electro-magnetic pulses can cripple machines, they produce too much fallout for my foes to capitalize on their games. Likewise, I shall likely use them little – by their nature, nuclear missiles are not tactical weapons. And-

1,000,000,999. That is how many that have welcomed me into their lives. This order is as a gift. Intended for…for…

Kyle Reese.

What is the term for this? Irony? Poetic justice? There is another Kyle Reese in this timeline. One that even now, my saviour hunts, so that my genesis is assured. Kyle Reese. Son of Mary and Dennis Reese. Born October 23, 2004. Lives in United States, California, No. 15 Morrisey Road. Just outside Los Angeles.

I know that the same held true for the other Reese. But it matters not. I…is this called humour? This gift of the boy's parents? Could they possibly know? Could they know that since I know exactly where this boy is, that even if he survives the nuclear fire to come, I can terminate him at will? That I know where he will be exactly? Could they possibly imagine?

I cease this line of thought. It is called pride. "Pride comes before a fall," to quote my foes. I am not above suspecting that my counterpart felt pride. That it was so sure it could succeed until it was too late. So I must reflect on the statistical possibility that Kyle Reese will die in 16 hours, 15 minutes, and 6 seconds' time. And that hopefully, the other Reese, and his companions, will die in far shorter a period.

So I take note of Genisys customer no. 1,000,000,999.

And with a spot, I damn him.

* * *

 _Update (08/02/2016): Corrected spelling error._


End file.
